


Poor, Ten Year Old Boy

by RedCrimez89



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bad Parent Talia al Ghul, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne-centric, Dark Past, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Baggage, Emotionally Repressed, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Green Eyes, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Protective Bruce Wayne, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23903974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedCrimez89/pseuds/RedCrimez89
Summary: " After many lonely nights of staring up at the stars dreaming of a life he wasn’t permitted to have, he suddenly had it all. He finally has everything that poor, ten year old boy could only dream of. Damian has everything that poor, ten year old boy thought he wasn’t worthy of."After Damian wakes up from another nightmare about his past and who he was before he arrived in Gotham, Bruce ends up comforting him when the tears start to form.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 209





	Poor, Ten Year Old Boy

**Author's Note:**

> A few things to say before you read this. No, this isn't a depressing story. We all have moments of sadness and self-doubt and this is about Damian facing those emotions. When I wrote Bruce, I feel like I didn't write enough dialogue for him and that I wrote him OOC, so I'm truly sorry if I have. But at the same time, actions speak the words he cannot day sometimes so maybe I did alright. Lastly, thank you for reading, feel free to leave feedback, and thanks for reading! Enjoy!

There’s no possible way Damian will be able to fall back asleep. His mind is too busy thinking, remembering. And in his family's line of work, remembering is a thing that leads to detrimental consequences; panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares. He honestly wasn’t surprised when his eyes shot open, darting around the room. He was covered in cold sweat, shivering under the covers of his bed. It’s been happening all week. The nightmares - no, flashbacks. Because everything he dreamt of wasn’t a memory that his mind twisted. It had all happened before, occurred in another life that he had buried six feet underground.

Despite his efforts to forget his past - all the torment and abuse he witnessed and experienced - it hadn’t worked at all. His past is a shadow that will forever loom over him. All the blood and grime on his hands will never truly be washed off no matter how hard he tries. The gruesome scenes of torture and execution will never fade away. They’ll replay in his head like a scene from a sad movie; never forgotten, never tainted. And the screams … they’ll continue to plague his worst dreams and nightmares, reminding him of the monster that lurks in his acid green eyes. He had committed unforgivable sins and now, he was paying for all of them.

Damian throws the thick sheets off him, pausing to stare at the ceiling as relief fills his body from the slight chill in the room. He drags himself off the bed and stumbles over to the restroom. When he looks in the mirror the all too familiar gaze of green irises greets him. They are a permanent reminder of who he is and where he came from, who he was supposed to become and what he is now. He does not find comfort in his green colored eyes at all. All he sees is Talia looking down at him with that disappointed gaze, or Ra’s with a wicked, cruel grin of insanity prepared to beat him to a pulp for whatever mistake he’s committed this time. He winces, the sharp shards of memories slicing open those eternal scars from his childhood of which throbbed in agony.

It’s only now that Damian takes in his entire complexion and truly realizes just how bad he looks. His skin is an unnaturally pale, a pallor that contrasted with his original olive-tanned color. Those acid green eyes he abhors so dearly are sunken, dark bags resting beneath them. His hair, dark and black like soot, is a mess of sweat soaked strands. He looks like a mess. Like he’s come down with the flu or some other disease. Despite his condition, Damian doesn’t have the energy to care. He’s too tired, ashamed, and guilty to even consider the reasoning for looking like death itself.

Without any second thoughts, he strips his clothes off and jumps into the shower. The steaming hot water loosens his tense muscles and calms his nerves. It drowns out the screaming of his victims and the memories of bleeding profusely in the middle of the desert with no one to save him. And...he’s thankful for that. For a couple of minutes, his anxiety eases and it feels alright to be in his skin for once. He squeezes his eyes shut, a sigh of relief making it's way past his lips. He isn’t quite aware of what time it is. The teenager doesn’t have enough energy to care at all, for all he yearns for is to go to the garden and read a book. That’ll surely whisk his insecurities and doubts away.

Damian exits the shower, mind fresh and a little less pale. He ends up wearing a black cotton shirt, black basketball shorts, and a royal blue oversized hoodie. (Whether the hoodie was stolen from Grayson or not is a topic that will certainly not be discussed). 

As Damian heads down the stairs, avoiding all the places where the ancient wood would creak and groan, his mind wanders in the process. He mostly thought about random things such as the oil painting he’d been working on and how his team is doing without him. It hasn’t even been a week since he came to visit Father and he’s already worried about his team. Pathetic, he thinks to himself.

‘ _See My Prince? Teammates are a liability, darling. They make you weak. But you let them in anyway. At what price?’_ Mother’s voice whispers in the back of his mind, tone low and taunting. But he doesn’t focus on it. Remembering means consequences. It means more pain and tears he doesn’t want to deal with. So he pushes her voice away. His self doubt is already enough baggage, he doesn’t need her adding more luggage to his pile.

As he walks he doesn’t register where he’s going, not really . His feet just lead him to wherever they desire, which happens to be the kitchen. With not much else to do, he decides to make himself a cup of chamomile tea in hopes of lulling him back to sleep. Damian sets up a kettle full of water on the stove top and turns it on to simmer. For the time being, he plugs in earphones to his iPod and puts his playlist on shuffle. He leaves the kitchen for a moment only to come back with his beloved sketch book, a charcoal pencil, an eraser, and a blending stump along with sandpaper to clean it occasionally. It’s not too long before Damian takes a seat at the counter and starts making light strokes against paper, an image of a landscape already forming in his mind.

A couple of minutes go by like this. Just his charcoal drawing and the sound of serene classical music playing in his ears. Damian glances back at the kettle and much to his dismay, it isn’t screeching like it’s on helium yet. So the teenager goes back to his drawing, not giving a care about the world. 

The music enshrouds the new sound of footsteps pattering against cool tile, approaching him in slow strides. Only when the figure stops does Damian realize his location has been compromised. Father now stands in front of him, icy blue irises staring down at him with half of his face casted in shadows. It takes everything in Damian to not jump or flinch and keep his body language calm and collected; one more thing to add to his list of imperfections. Damian pauses his music and rips out the earbuds, his eyes making contact with his Father’s. 

“ Damian? Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” His tone is surprisingly soft, comforting almost . The teen honestly expected to be yelled at or judged, dismissed and banished to his room for eternity. Even after all those years with Father, he’s still afraid of messing up and being sent away because he’s no longer deemed useful. Somehow, he’s forgotten the strong bond connecting the two of them.

‘ _You’re pathetic Damian. Get it together, boy. Don’t embarrass yourself or your heritage.’_ Damian can imagine her behind Bruce. Long brown hair flowing down her back, bright green eyes with that swirl of danger, and that devilish smirk–he ends up flinching anyway. If Father notices, he doesn’t speak up on it.

If it were anyone else, Damian would respond with a retort about how he could do whatever he wants whenever he wants, especially now that he operates the new and improved Teen Titans. But he doesn’t. He leans against his elbow on the countertop, his chin on his palm. “ No - yes - I … I couldn’t sleep…” He mumbles the last part, heat creeping up his cheeks from embarrassment. For all he talks about being untouchable and invulnerable, it sure hurts his pride when he admits even he has faults and tremors he doesn’t like to acknowledge. Mothers right about a few things...

Much to Damians surprise, Father sits down next to him and nods. “ I guess that makes two of us huh?” It isn’t a question meant to be answered. Not really. And yet, Damian hums in response, his shoulders moving up in a shrugging motion. The silence between them isn’t awkward anymore like it used to be. It’s a peaceful one. It speaks many words of comfort and promises that’ll forever be kept. It speaks of hugs and forehead kisses, smiles and protection for eternity. And despite the hissing voice of his Mother telling him to abort, to cease wishful thinking and continue to keep his emotions repressed, he finds himself launching towards his Father with tears already searing in his eyes. 

His Father releases a grunt, obviously caught off guard for a moment. He recovers quickly and wraps two strong arms around Damian; another promise of never ending protection. One of the calloused hands moves up to cup the back of his head, fingers stroking through soft black strands of hair. Damian's arms are around Father with two hands clenching the man's shirt like a lifeline. His ear is pressed against his broad chest, the sound of his heartbeat soothing in a way. His Father is whispering sweet things into his ear as he smooths out Damian's hair. He provides comfort to a person of his ilk - a comfort he doesn’t deserve - and it makes the teen want to ball his eyes out. Because somehow, even after all the horrible crimes he’s committed, someone still finds it in themselves to comfort such a monster like himself. “ _Shhh_ \- it’s alright Damian. You can let it out. No one will judge you.” 

He bites his trembling lip, considering. A part of him from The League of Assassins orders him to refuse. To stay in check and wipe his tears away, pull away from the strong and loving embrace that poor, 10 year old boy had always dreamt of a lifetime ago. Another part of him is just too tired to stay quiet anymore. Too tired of feeling so horrible everyday despite all the good things he’s done. In the end, his heart rules over his mind. So he does. He feels the tears build up in his eyes and they start pouring out and onto Father's shirt. He doesn’t seem to care so Damian doesn’t either. A moment of weakness, he reminds himself. Then, all this coddling will continue no further.

Fat, hot tears stream down his face as ugly sobs escape his mouth. The kettle is screeching at the top of it's lungs now but neither of them move to turn off the stovetop. He cannot remember the last time he truly let go and let himself release all the emotional burdens he carries. There’s never time for feelings in his line of work. Only time for saving, justice, and punches to the face. When Damians weeping calms down into occasional hiccups, it’s only then Father moves and turns off the stovetop. He fears that the man will walk out and leave him in the dark with all his worst nightmares, but he comes back and pulls Damian into his chest again just like before.

“ I - I’m sorry Father… I shouldn’t - I just -. I -“ No one ever gets to know how the rest of the sentence ends. He’s cut off by his Father.

With his free hand, Father shushes him by rubbing his back in small circles. Damian's mouth snaps shut. “Damian, I don’t know what you’re going through right now. But whatever it is, we’ll get through it together. Alright? There’s nothing to apologize for, I promise.”

He simply nods against his chest. He doesn’t trust his voice to not tremble or crack right now. Father and son end up sitting there for many minutes, perhaps hours. Damian lost track of time the moment his eyes started drooping. The teenager is on the brink of sleep just when he is suddenly scooped up into the air. As his Father carries him out of the room, he grumbles out tiredly and weakly pushes against his chest. “ M’ not a … baby . I - I c’n walk …” A loud yawn escapes his mouth after he finishes not-whining. _Traitor_. Ironically, it always got him into the worst of situations, didn't it?

“ No, but you're my baby.” Damian's face scrunches up at that, his cheeks turning pink again. And is that - is that a _smirk_ on his face? An _amused smirk?_ He said that because he knew Damian would blush, didn’t he? Well played Father. Well played.

“ Tt. Whatever... ” he ends up grumbling to hide his moment of humiliation. 

Eventually he’s settled down on a couch in what seems to be the den. At least that’s the room he thinks he’s in. His mind is too hazy to truly assess his surroundings. Father is sitting next to him with an arm draped over his shoulders, keeping him close. Damian finds himself leaning into his Father's side, the comforting warmth radiating off him a temptation he simply cannot resist. Whatever movie Father has set on the screen, he’s not paying attention to it. He’s too busy listening to the steady heartbeat that tells Damian he’s not alone. He finally has a family. He finally has friends and a home. He finally has people who love him for him, not because of the skills he possesses or the knowledge he withholds. 

After many lonely nights of staring up at the stars _dreaming_ of a life he wasn’t permitted to have, he suddenly had it all. He _finally_ has everything that poor, ten year old boy could only dream of. Damian has everything that poor, ten year old boy thought he wasn’t worthy of.

And he feels sorry because-

“ Father?”

“ Hm?”

“ I - I love you…”

“ … I love you too son.”

-he swears there’s no better feeling than the one he feels fluttering in his chest right now.


End file.
